STS Ch-22

“You son of a bitch,” Peter said with a wide grin after placing the script of Risky Business on the table. “You really want to do everything yourself, don’t you? I thought you’d leave the behind-the-scenes work to Ash and me, but no… you wrote a script, and now you want to direct it too?”

I chuckled and plucked the script back from him. “Not my fault you never managed to stick to one job long enough to master it. You tried everything and ended up doing nothing.”

“I take offense to that,” Peter shot back, though his tone carried more amusement than indignation. “I’m observing how things run on a set like this. I’ve been compiling a list of all the prerequisites for making a movie. You think you’re the only one who borrowed a notebook from the crew?”

I raised an eyebrow. “So what does that make you?”

“A producer,” Peter replied without hesitation, then quickly clarified. “Not the guy throwing in the money, but a line producer for sure. Once we’re done here, I’ll head to Hollywood and start looking for a job seriously. Unless, of course, you want to hire me.”

He wasn’t wrong. On a set, a line producer, first assistant director, or production manager often blurred into similar roles. It was arguably the second most important position after the director, responsible for keeping the entire operation running smoothly so the creative side could thrive without constant interference from logistical problems.

“As much as I’d love to, I can’t promise anything,” I said with a grimace, lifting the script in my hand like it weighed far more than paper should. “Doug might be leaving tomorrow, but I don’t even know if the studios will like the script. And even if they do, there’s no guarantee they’ll let me direct it. Let’s face it, if they say no, I don’t have the money to make this on my own.”

“Of course they’ll let you,” Ash said, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of a man who never saw storm clouds on the horizon. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever read.”

He had gone through the script just before Peter and, of everyone who had read it so far, Ash was the most enthusiastic about my writing. His faith was flattering, but it did little to quiet the unease curling in the pit of my stomach.

There was one problem I hadn’t voiced to anyone, and probably couldn’t. I wasn’t sure if the original Risky Business script even existed yet. The thought hadn’t occurred to me until Doug mentioned registering my version under my name. If the original writer came forward one day claiming I had stolen his idea, it could turn into a legal mess.

True, he wouldn’t be able to prove in court that I had access to his work since I had never met him or seen his script, but the hassle of fighting such a claim would be exhausting. I couldn’t even recall the director’s name. I knew his face from a YouTube anniversary interview of Risky Business I’d watched years ago, but that was all.

The same went for the characters. I didn’t remember their names from the original film, so I had replaced them with my own: my protagonist was named Jason, and the female lead, the hooker, Rachel.

It felt a little scummy, but it couldn’t be helped. As Nestor had pointed out not long ago, Hollywood was not a place for nice people. You had to be willing to step over others if you wanted to reach the top.

Still, I tried not to dwell on it. My goal wasn’t to get filthy rich from Risky Business alone. What I wanted was to establish myself in the film industry. Sure, there was The Blue Lagoon, but I had no idea whether the movie would be a hit without Brooke Shields. Julie and I were both unknowns, and both of us were legal, which meant there would be no scandals hanging over the production.

In the 21st century, controversy was poison to a career, but here, in the pre-internet age, nothing drove ticket sales faster than a public uproar. If the government launched an investigation into you? Even better for business.

But I didn’t want to go down that path. If I was going to be rich and famous, I wanted it to be because I’d done a good job, not because of some scandal.

“You forgot something important,” Peter cut into my thoughts, leaning forward in his chair. “Even if some studio lets you make this film on your terms, how are you going to manage that with university?”

I pushed myself up from my seat, brushing off the question like it was nothing. “Let’s not think about things that haven’t happened yet. Focus on the present. Come on, we have a job to do.”

(Break)

“What the hell are you playing at with this stunt, Randal?” Percy Bogart, the production manager, hissed under his breath. The two of them stood out of earshot from most of the crew. “It’s one thing to let that boy learn direction. It’s another to give him full control for the day. We’re already ahead of schedule and under budget. Why risk going backwards?”

“That boy, as you call him, is the only reason we’re ahead of schedule,” Randal replied evenly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had already made up his mind. “And the crew could use a break from me. So today, I’ll be speaking only to Noah, and no one else. My decision is final.”

Percy opened his mouth to argue, but Randal had already turned away, walking toward where Noah stood by the water’s edge, the rough wind messing with the golden strands of his hair.

For the first time in days, Randal felt a strange lightness. He didn’t believe for a second that Noah was ready to handle something as complex as The Blue Lagoon. In truth, he fully expected the teenager to turn in nothing more than average-quality footage.

But Randal needed a break. For the first time in years, he would spend the day in the background, free from the constant pressure of juggling a dozen potential disasters at once. If Noah messed up, so be it, they could reshoot. They were weeks ahead of schedule, maybe even a full month. One day’s work was expendable.

And if, by some miracle, Noah managed to capture something truly good, Randal would deal with that when the time came.

“Are you sure this is fine?” Noah asked, his voice lower than usual.

“Noah,” Randal said, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Stop doubting your abilities. If you don’t have confidence in yourself, no one in the crew will either. A director is like the captain of a ship, just their presence alone can steady everyone else on board. You have to project certainty, always.”

He stepped forward, resting both hands on Noah’s shoulders. “You are the best director out there, and you’re making the best film in the world. Make that your mantra, repeat it as often as you can, and then start filming.”

The words seemed to land. Noah straightened a little, his focus shifting toward Julie, the lead for the day’s scene. She stood at the edge of a quiet lake, the breeze ruffling the hem of her dress.

“Julie,” Noah called to her, “you understand the scene?”

“I do,” she replied, nodding once. “Although I don’t think anyone would buy it for even a second that I’m getting my first blood at this age.”

Noah shrugged, “It’s a tradeoff we have to make for casting you. Anyway, let’s go over it again so everyone’s on the same page. You’ll begin on that rock over there.” He pointed to a flat, sunlit stone jutting out from the water. “You’ll remove your dress, slowly, and when I give you the cue, you’ll enter the water and act as though something has startled you. Rub your arms and shoulders a bit for movement, then when the cue comes, react as if you’ve just noticed something alarming in the water near your legs. Bring your hands up like this…” He demonstrated the motion, lifting his arms and glancing down at them. “Then shout in panic and call out my character’s name. It needs to feel real, like you’re genuinely frightened. Even though my parts of the scene will be filmed later, and merged in post, I’ll still feed you lines if you need them.”

Julie gave him a thumbs-up and moved to take her mark.

Noah then turned to Nestor, the cinematographer. “Frame her so she’s backlit, especially in that first moment. I want her silhouette against the light as she removes her dress. People should yearn to see her, but the light makes it almost impossible. Once she’s in the water, focus more on her face and expression than anything else.”

Nestor raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure about that? The studio wants plenty of coverage that emphasizes…her body. Both of yours actually.”

“It’s just one scene,” Noah said, his tone calm but firm. “I’ve worked in a photo studio since I was fifteen. The most striking images are the ones that suggest rather than show everything outright. They invite the audience to imagine the rest. It’s like giving them just enough to keep them hooked. I want exactly that for the portions I shoot.”

When the director of photography still didn’t look convinced, Noah added, “We have the entire movie to deliver what the studio wants. Let me do this shot as I’ve envisioned it, and then you can tell me what you think.”

Nestor finally glanced toward Randal, silently asking for backup, but Randal only shrugged. Getting the crew on board was part of a director’s job, and it was better for Noah to learn that now.

“Alright,” Nestor relented at last. “We’ll do it your way.”

Noah gave him a single nod before turning to Randal. “Anything you’d like to add?”

“No,” Randal replied. “Like I said earlier, I’m a passive observer today. You’re doing a fine job from where I’m standing.”

Grateful, Noah moved behind the camera, eyes fixed on the monitor as the crew prepared for the take. Randal, however, noticed something about the set that was quiet different from usual days: not everyone seemed fully invested. It was as if some of them had decided that today’s work didn’t deserve their best effort.

“Sound,” Noah called evenly. “Camera.”

A faint hesitation passed through his voice before the final word came. “Action!”

If Noah felt the weight of command, Julie did not. She moved into position with the same focus and professionalism she always brought to the set. That was something Randal admired about her: no matter the condition on set, she treated every shot with the same seriousness.

Julie stepped onto her mark and began the scene with smooth, deliberate movements. She stretched lazily at her assigned spot before taking off the only piece of clothing she was wearing. The way she slowly moved the fabric up her naked form was marvelous to see. While Randal wasn’t into women, he could definitely appreciate a sexy one. And it went without saying that Julie had one heck of a body. As soon as the movie was out in theaters, whether it was a hit or a flop, she would be drowning in offers from all the big filmmakers who would definitely want to offer her a lot of similar bold roles.

The crew’s chatter stilled, attention narrowing to the frame. Randal glanced at Noah, half-expecting the boy to be distracted, but Noah’s gaze was locked on the monitor, watching every detail of the composition.

“Cut!” Noah’s voice broke the quiet sooner than expected, halting the action. He turned to the camera operator. “Eddie, I need the focus to linger longer on the lower half of the frame before you move up to her face. Right now, the pan is too fast.”

Eddie gave a professional nod, unfazed by the correction.

“Ben,” Noah said next, looking toward the boom operator with a tone that left no room for argument, “eyes on the work.”

Ben’s ears reddened as a ripple of quiet laughter moved through the crew. No one needed to guess what had drawn his attention away from his job.

“This goes for everyone,” Noah said, raising his voice just enough to carry across the set. “If you’re not involved in this scene, please step back. If you are, then do your job without making our actress uncomfortable. I want Julie’s best performance here.”

He paused, as if weighing his next words. “I know some of you think this isn’t a real shoot and that I’m just wasting time. But I don’t see it that way. Whether the result is great or not, I’m taking this seriously and aiming to make it the best scene I can. For that, I need you all to work with me. If you’ve got a problem with me running this, say it now, and I’ll step back and hand the reins to Randal. But if you don’t, then give this your full effort. Don’t half-ass it.”

Randal was quietly impressed. Noah had a way of choosing words that avoided offense but still carried enough weight to get people moving.

Noah waited, scanning the crew for any objections. When none came, he gave a short nod. “Alright, I’ll take that as a yes. Back to work.” He clapped his hands once, and like a chain reaction, everyone snapped into position.

Returning to the camera, Noah signaled for the scene to restart. The crew now moved with fresh energy, the earlier sluggishness gone.

“Action!”

A man with the clapperboard stepped into view. “Take two.”

Once he was clear of the frame, Julie began her performance again. The camera started low, tracking upward in a deliberate, measured pace until her expression filled the shot. Light streamed in from behind, turning her outline into a dark silhouette against the shining lake.

She stepped forward and dove into the water. Nearby, the diving instructors watched closely, ready to move in if needed, but the take went smoothly. Julie swam a short distance, then rubbed her arms in a motion they had rehearsed.

Standing at the water’s edge, Noah waited until the right beat, then tapped the shoulder of a crew member. A moment later, a plume of red dye spread in the water, and the camera caught Julie’s startled reaction.

“Aaah! Richard!” she cried out, voice ringing clear over the quiet of the set.

“Cut!” Noah called, a note of satisfaction in his tone. “That was good. Let’s get one more while everyone’s sharp. Julie, you can stick to what we planned or improvise if you feel like it.”

Randal personally thought the take didn’t need changing, but he didn’t interfere. They ran the scene three more times, eventually settling on the first strong take.

Later, standing beside Nestor, Randal asked, “Still think I made a bad call?”

Watching the playback, Randal had to admit silently that he’d underestimated the boy. He had expected something merely competent, but what Noah delivered exceeded his own work in some ways. The use of shadow and contrast gave the moment an elegance rather than cheap and porn-ish. That was rare for someone so new to directing.

“I hate to say this, but this is amazing,” Nestor said with a grin. “Remind me again why we need you when we’ve got Noah?”

Randal narrowed his eyes at the DP. “That’s just one scene. Let’s see how he does when he has to direct himself.”

(Break)

Douglas Day Stewart sat across from Frank Price, the head of Columbia Pictures, who was silently reading the script. Beside Doug, his old friend Paul Brickman gave him a small, encouraging nod, a silent “hang in there.”

After what felt like hours, Price finally set the script down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if replaying the story in his mind, then gave a single, deliberate nod.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “I can greenlight this screenplay you two have written.”

“Actually,” Paul spoke up, “we didn’t write it. I’d had a similar idea kicking around for years, but I never put it on paper. About a month ago, Doug told me a new actor/writer, Noah Hunter, had written this screenplay. I knew I had to help. While we both contributed, around ninety percent of the work is Noah’s.”

“Noah Hunter…” Price repeated under his breath. “Which one is that?”

“The actor who was cast in The Blue Lagoon,” Doug reminded him.

“Ah, yes,” Price nodded. “Now I remember. Fine, I’ll approve it. But I have a condition. I want a competent director attached. I’m not handing over millions of dollars to a teenager.”

Doug hesitated. “Randal Kleiser speaks very highly of his photography skills. He worked in a photo studio for a few years, so he has good knowledge of how lighting and imagery work. Randal even plans to mentor him during filming.”

“Randal can direct it if he wants,” Price said with a shrug. “But unless Noah has secretly directed a blockbuster, he’s not helming this movie. People will laugh at me for agreeing to him as a director when he has just stepped into the show business.”

Price slid the script back toward them. “Better take it elsewhere if this is non-negotiable.”

Doug and Paul exchanged a quick, uneasy glance before Paul took a breath. They’d discussed this move before coming here. While they hadn’t had a talk with Noah about it, Doug was sure he would see it their way.

“What if I directed it?” Paul asked.

Price leaned back, more interested now. “Have you directed a film before?”

“Not a feature,” Paul admitted, “but I’ve shot plenty of shorts.” He reached down into his bag and pulled out a few VHS tapes. “I brought samples, if you’d like to see my work.”

Doug caught the glint in Price’s eyes and understood: it wasn’t Noah’s inexperience that was the dealbreaker; it was his age. Hollywood trusted plenty of untested people, but not untested teenagers with studio money.

Even if Price said yes with Paul directing, there was still one big problem: convincing Noah. After all, this was still his script.