Student Film #3

An extract from
Early Starts &; Broken Hearts - A Struggling Actor's Journal
By Peter J. Davis

19-10-02 Student Film # 3

This morning I got up at 5:45am and sat on a coach for three hours
surrounded by Germans and Italians before finally arriving in
Bournemouth, a lovely quaint little town on the south coast.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to see any of it because I spent the entire
weekend with my head stuck in a backless fridge with a camera pointed
at me.
I've never been a fan of coach journeys, and the 7:30 from London
Victoria to Bournemouth was no exception. All around me was a foreign
jabbering, until the German girl who sat next to me tried to convince
the rest of them that as this was their last day in England, they
should all try to speak English all day (I'm sure it had nothing to do
with the fact that some of the Italians couldn't speak German).
During the stilted conversation that followed, the only thing I could
hear clearly were the two sat behind me, who appeared to be attempting
to get into the Guiness Book of Records for the world's loudest
kissing. This made me think of my bed back home. Two hours previously I
has been lying naked next to a warm, beautiful woman who I loved more
than anything else in the world, and here I was - cold, tired and
listening to two europeans trying to suck each other's faces off,
whilst the others were trying their hardest to understand each
other.
They were speaking their own languages again by 8:30.

I was met from the coach station by an exact replica of Pipkin from
the film version of Watership Down. Except that she was female. And she
wasn't a rabbit. She drove me round to the squalid student house where
I was to remain for the next two days. After meeting the director (who
appeared to have all the charm of a dying newt), I sat down to await
further instruction.
By 10:30 we were ready to shoot. I had met the two other actors I
would be working with (one was a surprisingly inarticulate black stand
up comedian, and the other was a fresh faced 1st year drama school
student who seemed to think the production was privileged to have him
working on it) and I spent an hour being ridiculed and laughed at in
front of the camera and crew.
By the way, my character is constantly referred to as "Weird
Boy".
I was then informed that I was finished for the day.
"I'm sorry - we should have done the schedule better - you could've
come this afternoon," the director laughed.
I contained my anger.
After watching TV with the sound off and reading a particularly
gripping Stephen King book, I began to talk to a 3rd year journalism
student. This was by far the most interesting portion of the day so
far. We were launching into a discussion on Hunter S. Thompson and the
prospect of Gonzo journalism in England when Pipkin arrived out of
nowhere, and the conversation was immediately switched to parties and
drinking.
I sat back on the sofa, eyed flickering back to the silent
television.

The evening crept up like a tramp with syphilis, and sure enough - we
were sat in front of the TV, drinking. I was informed that we should be
finished early the following day - which meant I could go home and have
some valuable quality time with my fianc?e before careering back to
Kent to spend another week being ritually humiliated in from of 200
eight year olds, wearing a chemist's coat, rabbit ears and a slightly
bemused what-have-I-got-myself-into expression on my face.
Then I got a taste of what the next day was really going to be like -
the director announced she had lost the mini-DV cassette she had
recorded the entire day's work on, and the prima dona had gone to
bed.
The comedian and I decided to get drunk.
As we launched into some beers in front of the televisual shit, I was
informed that I would be sleeping at Pipkin's house. However, she was
ill and so wanted to go home early. Some confusion about an empty house
and a single set of keys saw me walking her home, making the journey
for the first time that evening, just to see where it was and return
with the keys. When I got back, nobody had moved and the living room
air was being tortured by cigarette smoke. I sat back down next to the
comedian to enjoy the rest of the evening.
However, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't.
At 11:45 I couldn't take it any more. I was slightly light headed, and
bored almost to the point of insanity.
"I think I'm going to make a move," I announced to the congregation.
The comedian shot me a look almost pleading me to stay a while longer -
for his sake. But my mind was made up. I said goodnight and launched
forth into the night - moderately drunk and freezing, zigzagging my way
through what seemed like hundreds of 17 year olds queuing to get into
seedy looking, run down clubs.
I finally arrived out of the cold into an even colder bedroom,
belonging to a young man I would never meet. I curled up into a ball
under the thin cover, waited for my body to warm up, and eventually
fell asleep.

"Chris? Chris!"
About an hour had passed - I had been jarred awake and my head was
struggling to grasp information. I had heard a commotion - I was sure
of that much. Pipkin's housemates had come home, wrecked out of their
heads, and had stumbled around, barging in on Pipkin before coming into
my room.
"Chris? Chris!"
I guessed that the owner of my bedroom was called Chris.
I remained still, and when they were convinced that not only was I
asleep, but also that I wasn't Chris, they left me alone. I let sleep
wash slowly back over me, wondering what was in store for me the next
time I awoke.