the set, we try again tomorrow.’
‘Okay everybody, you heard the director.’ The invisible New Yorker did not hide her exasperation. ‘Stop the action.’ The blond man turned his radio off with a click and hooked it on his belt. Emerson stamped a foot.
‘There’s no need to be like that!’
‘He destroy my shot!’ The fat man fiddled with his camera.
‘Hey, Palmiro, who’s directin’ this picture, you or Peter Tress?’
‘I think you are,’ he growled.
From the trees all around, film crew emerged, wearing communications headsets and T-shirts, incongruous amongst the medieval warriors. Some carried cameras, some held microphones on boom poles and others walked into the battle, waving their arms.
‘Annalise,’ Tress addressed the kneeling Roselaine. ‘You can get up now.’
She raised her face. It was streaked with tears. Emerson snapped his fingers. A female runner ran over and handed him a bottle of cold water.
‘Annalise – you agree with me, don’t cha?’ He slugged the water, without offering her any. ‘It would be better if you sorta threw yourself on me, insteada the dirt. I mean, who’s better, me or the dirt?’
She did not answer or stand up. A knight on horseback approached. He opened his visor and flashed a smile at Annalise.
‘Peter!’ he enquired of the director, who had stepped out of the basket. ‘Are we done here? Maria said we’re done already!’
Tress sighed. ‘If Maria says you are done, then you are done.’ The knight whooped and galloped back towards his friends, waving his lance.
‘Beer time, dudes!’
The noise level subsided as the battle quelled and the extras gelled into groups, talking and shrugging their shoulders. Already, charge hands wearing shorts and heavy boots had started to roll the big fake boulder back towards the catapult.
‘You can get up now, Annalise,’ Tress repeated. He took her arm and helped her to her feet. Harry Emerson unstrapped his sword and tossed it at the runner. He stepped off the discreet mound of earth that had been specially positioned for him and instantly shrank by a head. The aluminium basket swung away, with the unhappy cameraman at the controls.
‘You shouldn’t let him talk to me like that,’ Emerson admonished Tress. He waved across the clearing. Two black Range Rovers lumbered out of the trees, doubly incongruous on the historic battlefield.
‘Sergio Palmiro is the best cinematographer working today.’
‘He’s the goddamn rudest. I dunno how you do things back in Denmark, but no Hollywood director worth a shit would tolerate that.’ Shielding his eyes, he watched the progress of the vehicles.
‘I am Swedish, Harry, not Danish, and we are in Europe, not Hollywood. I do not think of Sergio as my employee: we collaborate. That is the way I prefer to work, everyone together.And I like to follow the script.’
Emerson snorted. ‘That so, huh?’
The cars pulled up. Two men jumped out of the first and no fewer than four from the second; they were ethnically mixed, but oddly uniform as they all wore sunglasses and black blazers which looked too heavy in the heat.
‘H.E.,’ one of them said in a bass voice, while the rest formed a cordon, as if expecting trouble. ‘Everything okay?’
‘We’re done here, Levine. Time to go home.’
The giant called Levine opened the lead vehicle and Emerson climbed up into the passenger seat. The door closed and for a few seconds he was invisible behind smoked glass. When this whirred open, he had donned a pair of sunglasses.
‘Annalise! I almost forgot! Come to dinner tonight, okay?’
‘Pardon?’
‘My place. Say, eight-thirty.’
She shook her head. There was still something of Roselaine in her voice.
‘Thank you, but I prefer to be alone. To ready myself for tomorrow.’
He wagged a finger. ‘Hey kiddo – if you and me are gonna be lovers then we gotta get acquainted! I’ll have my chef cook somethin’ special – Levine will pick you up at
‘Okay everybody, you heard the director.’ The invisible New Yorker did not hide her exasperation. ‘Stop the action.’ The blond man turned his radio off with a click and hooked it on his belt. Emerson stamped a foot.
‘There’s no need to be like that!’
‘He destroy my shot!’ The fat man fiddled with his camera.
‘Hey, Palmiro, who’s directin’ this picture, you or Peter Tress?’
‘I think you are,’ he growled.
From the trees all around, film crew emerged, wearing communications headsets and T-shirts, incongruous amongst the medieval warriors. Some carried cameras, some held microphones on boom poles and others walked into the battle, waving their arms.
‘Annalise,’ Tress addressed the kneeling Roselaine. ‘You can get up now.’
She raised her face. It was streaked with tears. Emerson snapped his fingers. A female runner ran over and handed him a bottle of cold water.
‘Annalise – you agree with me, don’t cha?’ He slugged the water, without offering her any. ‘It would be better if you sorta threw yourself on me, insteada the dirt. I mean, who’s better, me or the dirt?’
She did not answer or stand up. A knight on horseback approached. He opened his visor and flashed a smile at Annalise.
‘Peter!’ he enquired of the director, who had stepped out of the basket. ‘Are we done here? Maria said we’re done already!’
Tress sighed. ‘If Maria says you are done, then you are done.’ The knight whooped and galloped back towards his friends, waving his lance.
‘Beer time, dudes!’
The noise level subsided as the battle quelled and the extras gelled into groups, talking and shrugging their shoulders. Already, charge hands wearing shorts and heavy boots had started to roll the big fake boulder back towards the catapult.
‘You can get up now, Annalise,’ Tress repeated. He took her arm and helped her to her feet. Harry Emerson unstrapped his sword and tossed it at the runner. He stepped off the discreet mound of earth that had been specially positioned for him and instantly shrank by a head. The aluminium basket swung away, with the unhappy cameraman at the controls.
‘You shouldn’t let him talk to me like that,’ Emerson admonished Tress. He waved across the clearing. Two black Range Rovers lumbered out of the trees, doubly incongruous on the historic battlefield.
‘Sergio Palmiro is the best cinematographer working today.’
‘He’s the goddamn rudest. I dunno how you do things back in Denmark, but no Hollywood director worth a shit would tolerate that.’ Shielding his eyes, he watched the progress of the vehicles.
‘I am Swedish, Harry, not Danish, and we are in Europe, not Hollywood. I do not think of Sergio as my employee: we collaborate. That is the way I prefer to work, everyone together.And I like to follow the script.’
Emerson snorted. ‘That so, huh?’
The cars pulled up. Two men jumped out of the first and no fewer than four from the second; they were ethnically mixed, but oddly uniform as they all wore sunglasses and black blazers which looked too heavy in the heat.
‘H.E.,’ one of them said in a bass voice, while the rest formed a cordon, as if expecting trouble. ‘Everything okay?’
‘We’re done here, Levine. Time to go home.’
The giant called Levine opened the lead vehicle and Emerson climbed up into the passenger seat. The door closed and for a few seconds he was invisible behind smoked glass. When this whirred open, he had donned a pair of sunglasses.
‘Annalise! I almost forgot! Come to dinner tonight, okay?’
‘Pardon?’
‘My place. Say, eight-thirty.’
She shook her head. There was still something of Roselaine in her voice.
‘Thank you, but I prefer to be alone. To ready myself for tomorrow.’
He wagged a finger. ‘Hey kiddo – if you and me are gonna be lovers then we gotta get acquainted! I’ll have my chef cook somethin’ special – Levine will pick you up at
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