The Cinematographer

A short one act play I wrote.

Rehearsal: 10:38pm, Friday (1983)


“Just...” he explained to his photographer, pointing and twisting his arm with a grotesque surly force, “just fuck the audience with the camera,” really filling out the consonant, and indicating with his arm the physical motion he wanted the camera to make and also the protruding molestation that would occur in the mind of the audience.
“You know,” he went on, “just keep them off balance, keep taking them by surprise,” he held his hands together and created the shape of a box and put it up to his eyes and looked through it. Then he began tilting his head and hands from side to side, his eyes constantly within the frame, indicating how he wanted the camera to see the actors.
He put his hands down and stood there for a moment looking around, as if seeing the set for the first time and then walked briskly back to the chair and sat down. He is a short man by Midwestern standards, those by which he was raised, but here that doesn’t matter, and not because most of the people with whom he associates - actors and the like - are the same relative slightness in stature, but because here, he is big. This is Hollywood. He yelled to his photographer from the chair, “I want it to feel disorienting you know, disassociate the audience from the story.”
The photographer, a tall quiet gaunt man with thinning hair and a pale complexion, replied with a lazy resounding voice as if it were emanating from the thick hollow hull of a ship, “They’re going to be aware of the camera though, you’re making them aware, I think the story is great, why disassociate the audience from it?”
The Director looked at him for a moment, “Well sure Frank, I think the story is great too, that’s why I accepted the project,” he sniffled quickly and half raised his hand to his nose, “but I think my vision is going to add to the story, not take away from it. It’s an artistic choice.”
The photographer nodded and shuffled his feet. He looked up at his lights and then back at the Director, who was lazily staring back at him. He had an off-putting, almost silly confidence that he wore in that grim stare that couldn’t be vanquished. He simply wore you down. The photographer looked toward the talent and lazily protruded his arm and twisted as the Director had vehemently coached a moment ago, laying on a thin layer of facetiousness by juxtaposing his languid action to the directors vigorous screwing.
“Fuck em,” the photographer said, “with the camera.”
“Yeah.” The director added, “keep em’ off balance you know?”
The photographer nodded his head and walked back to his camera set up on the tri-pod, his crew looking to him, alert and at the ready. He looked through the lens out of habit and then pulled back and looked at the talent. He ran his hand through the thick grey hair above his wrinkled forehead.
The director sat back and clapped the headphones over his ears and looked into the screen. “Lets run it one more time... lets run it one more time!" He yelled.
The photographer turned to an assistant of his and smiled mildly, almost wisely, like a secret could be found in that smile, some lost ancient wisdom that kept him going, kept his heart alive; the photographer nodded and walked into the shadows.