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Hollywood PrePlay
Filming had begun and James was staunch in his insistence this was the last one. The media kept harping on the end of his era, on if he'd cameo, who might be the next hot actor to take on the role. For his part, he didn't care. He'd had his fill.
It was moments like now, dressed head to toe in an obnoxious green spandex body suit with a few motion capture dots on his face. Making films hadn't been like this when he'd started. James recalled practical effects. Now, though...
"Everything's CGI," he grumbled into his paper cup of tea while he waited to be called to place.
It was moments like now, dressed head to toe in an obnoxious green spandex body suit with a few motion capture dots on his face. Making films hadn't been like this when he'd started. James recalled practical effects. Now, though...
"Everything's CGI," he grumbled into his paper cup of tea while he waited to be called to place.
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"I'm sorry, Mr. Bond, I just need to adjust some of the markers. It'll only take a moment," he assured him.
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He looked the young tech over, up and down.
"You know that instead of all this fuss we could have it done and done with a lighter and a bottle of Stoli," he grumbled, even as he put his tea aside to let Q work.
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"Yes, well, you're of an age where the insurance is less keen on those sorts of practical effects. They don't really go in for that anymore. Safety first and all that," Q said mildly as he made a few adjustments.
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He sighed heavily. At his age. James wasn't even sure why he was doing one more picture at his age.
"Ah yes, safety first," he said. "Alright, then."
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Q finished making adjustments, then took a step back and glanced at the pre-render monitor. It all seemed to be registering now.
"That should do it," he decided. "Apologies for interrupting."
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He looked at Q curiously for a moment, then shook his head.
"Don't apologize for doing your job," he told him kindly.
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"I wasn't really, I was being polite. I've been told I should be friendlier when engaging with the talent," Q told him bluntly, pushing his glasses back up his nose before returning to the director's side to wait for the action to start again.
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James watched him go, head tilted as he watched him. In barely any words, this tech had called him old, and then the talent?
He was going to need to reflect on why that hurt when he journaled later. For now, he took his place, followed his cues, and became an action hero for as long as the cameras were rolling. By the time it was a wrap for the day, James had jumped into the foam pit so many times, he ached.
dutifully, he waited for some tech to unhook him so he could retire to his trailer.
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Q came over and started to help him remove the headpiece and some other bits, frowning a little when he noticed a wire hanging a bit loose.
"Someone will come around to collect the rest," he assured him. "You have some light redness where the dots on your face are, you might be allergic to the adhesive."
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"I don't need anyone. I still have most of the tube of cream they gave me last time," he assured him. "It will be fine...apologies. I'm James. I didn't get your name..."
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"You can call me Q, most people do," Q replied. "It's alright, Mr. Bond, you don't have to make small talk, I'm not the sort who goes running to the tabloids to complain about how unfriendly the actors were, or talk about who's shagging who."
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"That tells me more about your set experiences than you," he replied. "I don't care. The rags will say what they say, and crew needs to eat."
He reached up to scratch the reddest of the dots.
"I appreciate that you wouldn't, though."
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"I get by just fine," Q assured him. "Is there anything else?" he asked, adjusting his glasses again.
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"No," he answered. "I'm sure you've got a lot to do, and I need to be in make up in thirty. It was nice working with you, Q."
And he meant it, too.
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"And you, Mr. Bond," Q said with a polite nod, looking him over curiously before leaving with the equipment.
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James headed for his trailer to put heating pads on his knees and settle into his massage chair. A quick, mechanical rub-down and he was off to make up where they did him up for the post explosion scenes. Dirty, bloody, costume change into a torn Oxford and the remnants of well cut Ford trousers that hugged his ass just so.
He wandered onto the set and snatched up a snack as he joined the team setting up the lights to chat until he was needed.
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Q was still on set, the director eager to have him 'Really understand the mood of the film'. He was pretty sure another cash grab in a series that should have ended two films ago only had one mood, and that was misery. No one seemed to want to be here. It was a shame, Q had once loved these films. It hurt a little to see everyone so over it.
Sinking low in his seat, he watched Bond with a small frown. At one point he'd had a crush on the man, but now he thought he might have had a thing for the character he played. Dangerous, full of swagger and charm.
He wondered if there were really men like that in the world. So far all the actors he'd met were either boring, wet rags, or actual sociopaths.
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By the final cut of the night, he looked tired. He grabbed a bottle and had a smile for everyone he passed. He paused when he got to Q.
"You can make it all go together?" he asked warmly.
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Q seemed puzzled for a moment, glancing behind himself as though he assumed Bond was speaking to someone else. There was no one else around though, and he returned his attention to Bond.
"I'm afraid we're all at the mercy of the editor for that," he said. "I can make sure the rocks look extra nice though, just for you," he quipped dryly.
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"It's the digital rocks that get butts in seats," he smiled.
"Will you be on set for the rest of the week?" he asked curiously.
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"Mmm, the director is keen to keep me around," Q nodded, looking a bit unhappy about that. "He's very hands on," he added dryly.