Acting (the fool...)

Acting is weird stuff. Just in case my last post suggested I was a genius at it, this shows you how awful I am. Originally posted Saturday, August 19, 2006

There's a reason you should always get the best and most professional actors you can. And that is because using an amateur -- especially a single amateur working amid talented actors who try to talk him through it -- is going to make your shoot last twice as long, and may result in an end product that is far less than you imagined.

Last night, we shot the last scene from "Joined," Travis's production of Andy's script about conjoined twin prostitutes. Sort of. Well, just see it, then you'll know what it's about. Anyway, we shot the sex scene last night. I was an actor. I'm not sure if I learned that one needs to schedule the sex early, to get it out of the way, or late, to put off until the end the most difficult stuff. Because, it most certainly was difficult, at least for me.

At the time, I was thinking that it was because I was getting old, but on reflection, no, I suspect it's just a flaw in my character. I'm not sure if there was ever a time when I would've been comfortable simulating noisy sex with two beautiful girls, in the bedroom one shares with her husband, and with the other's ten-year-old child downstairs. A less uptight man than myself would surely have dived into the situation with aplomb, no doubt. That is to say, a real actor.

But more than the psychic discomfort was the physical. I honestly don't know how the Hefnerian set pull it off -- there are serious blocking issues involved with a three-way, especially one where the two women involved are (or at least are pretending to be) joined at the hip. Where exactly do I position my knee here, Travis? Pants on or off? Could you by any chance phrase that direction not to be dirty, dirty inuendo? These are not questions he (or anyone) is prepared to be asked.

Then there was the linen equivalent of rug-rash, the muscle cramps, the sweat (oh, the lights, the lights!), and the little matter of where to rest my bulk when straddling a woman I'm really not prepared to be straddling quite so intimately. I found myself far more aware of the bodies of my friends than I'd ever intended to be. And leave us not forget the glasses -- I needed them on (otherwise, at least in my mind, it was just Pete dry-humping Lanni and Dawn, and not Councilman Pinksi aboard the Butterworth twins), but they kept slipping down and falling. I think they may have chipped Dawn's tooth in one particularly nasty plummet, while I was in mid-spasm.

I have found myself, in times past, scoffing at the actors who claim that sex-scenes are hard work. Sure, Michael Douglas, must be difficult rolling around with a naked Sharon Stone (you know, back when it meant something for either of them to be naked). Never again. It is hard work, especially if you've been dosed with more than your share of Catholic (well, Episcopalian) guilt.

All in all, it was like sex with a stranger. Partially dressed. In the presence of three other men. And without, y'know, any of the good stuff.