A band of towering barbarians stood at the forest's edge, fierce eyes fixed ahead; wisps of smoke curled behind them, a great battle ready to erupt at any moment.
On the open ground before them loomed a tall, powerful figure gripping a long-handled warhammer inlaid with tribal totems, his face expressionless as he stared into the distance. At first glance he radiated the air of a chieftain.
Opposite him, no formed Roman legion was visible—only scattered extras half-hidden in the haze—yet Macon worked hard to look ferocious.
A camera on a dolly glided forward in a half-circle, keeping his face centered in frame while the hundred background players behind him served merely as scenery.
"Ooh—ah—wah—hah!"
Macon hoisted the warhammer one-handed above his head and unleashed a roar even louder, wilder, and more savage than yesterday's.
"Woh—oh!"
The extras behind him answered with a ragged chorus of shouts.
In an instant the set turned back into an asylum for the insane.
"Cut!" Ridley Scott barked, clearly dissatisfied. He rose from the director's chair and strode onto set, first yelling at the camera Crew, "When the dolly moves in, the zoom is lagging—switch to manual!"
"Got it!" the cinematographer replied.
A makeup artist darted in to blot Macon's sweat. The treatment this character received was worlds away from what the human backdrops got; after instructing the camera team, Ridley Scott himself came over.
"Good roar—loud, savage," the British veteran said, circling Macon. "But it's not enough! You're a tribal leader staring down an undefeated Roman legion!"
He glanced toward Helen Herman at the edge of the set and asked suddenly, "What else does this role need in terms of presence?"
The question made Macon think of the martyrs he'd once studied in textbooks, and inspiration struck. "The spirit of knowing you'll die yet never surrendering! Um… a readiness to face death, and… unwillingness to accept defeat."
Ridley Scott nodded to himself—no wonder this kid had acted opposite Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie; he had decent instincts.
"Show it!" Ridley Scott ordered.
While this side of the set bustled, the extras had it easy; many eyes were fixed on Macon and Ridley Scott.
Among them, a weird-looking bald man stared enviously and muttered, "That guy looks familiar."
"Not just familiar—I know him," said a tall man beside him. "Yesterday he was on my right during the shoot."
The bald man's mouth dropped. "He's an extra, like us?"
"Yep," the tall man nodded. "Same company. He sat behind you on the bus."
He pointed toward Michael Sheen, clutching sword and shield. "Right next to him—they're roommates!"
"Hey, buddy!" the bald man called, remembering the loudmouth who wanted fame. "Where's your pal?" He jerked a thumb at Macon. "That's your roommate, right?"
Michael Sheen glanced at Ridley Scott personally coaching Macon, his own face dark, but he nodded.
The bald man grinned mockingly. "Thought you were gonna be the big star—how come he's stealing the spotlight?"
The tall man sighed, "Ridley Scott giving personal notes… if that were me, I'd jump into the Pacific from sheer excitement."
Laughter rippled around them, but every eye carried envy and jealousy.
Michael Sheen stared at the center of the set, wishing desperately that he were the one standing there.
"An extra
climbing up so fast," the bald man went on. "Must have connections or be real slick."
The tall man added, "Either way, he'll leave our league soon."
The bald man turned back to Michael Sheen. "Aren't you friends? Introduce us. If he makes it big, maybe he'll throw us a bone."
The words jolted Michael Sheen; he wiped the scowl from his face. If Macon really took off, staying close might pay off.
"Yeah, we're tight!" Michael Sheen said. "Macon's super capable—Angel Agency's boss thinks the world of him. You guys wanna meet him? No problem, I'll set it up when we're free…"
A small crowd gathered around Michael Sheen, fishing for details about Macon.
Across the set, a man gripping a round shield glared at Macon in fury.
"So you're the one who stole my role!"
His face blazed with anger hot enough to ignite the forest behind him. "I'm Macon—top graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts—and I'm stuck here with a bunch of lousy extras…
Ever since yesterday, when he learned Ridley Scott had cut his role, he'd been burning with rage. Learning this morning that the part had gone to some American hillbilly only stoked the fire. If his Agent hadn't talked him down—reminding him of Ridley's stature and the weight of Universal Pictures behind the Crew—he'd have smashed the set to splinters.
Though he wouldn't graduate until summer, the cachet of RADA and a glowing reference from one of its grandees had already landed him speaking parts in several productions. His starting line was sky-high, and he brimmed with faith in his own genius; becoming the next Jude Law felt like destiny.
Then he tripped—here, of all places. That old man Ridley hadn't spared a shred of face for him or his mentor.
He couldn't afford to cross Ridley Scott… "Picture's up! Picture's up!"
An Assistant Director strode over with a megaphone. "Five minutes to roll! Everyone to positions!"
Macon snatched the short sword at his feet and stalked toward the set, still seething. Thankfully they'd shoot his solo shots later—otherwise he'd have hurled the blade and walked… The makeup artists scattered, departments snapped to readiness, and Matthew stood, eyes closed, wondering how to deliver what he'd promised.
He'd never trained; his only real shoot had been a single day, plus whatever theory he'd crammed from books lately.
He'd read that acting splits into "experiencing," "presentational," and "method" schools.
But Matthew's schooling was thin, his technical knowledge scant; the differences still eluded him.
This was a break, but it also showed him—bluntly—how little he knew. Now he ached for the acting class starting in May.
Shooting was seconds away; he had to deliver something, or his big talk would burst like a bubble.
He knew without doubt that Helen Herman, for all her connections, would never hand him a second chance if he blew this.
If he couldn't name the styles, so be it. Black cat, white cat—any cat that catches mice is a good cat.
Defiance unto death? He'd seen it everywhere as a kid—in books, on TV.
He let the tension drain, emptied his mind of clutter, until the world narrowed to just him.
Action!
The word slipped into his ear. Matthew's gaze snapped sharp, fixed ahead. Seconds later he hoisted the war hammer overhead, opened the mouth hidden beneath his beard, and with the lungs of an ox emptied his chest in a roar fit for a war god.
Aaaa—waaa—ahhh—
In that instant memories flashed by: first, the boss who'd vanished without pay, and Matthew howling at him; then the uniforms who'd driven them off the picket line, and his cry of injustice; finally the square of sky visible when they slammed him in a cell for "disturbing order," and his refusal to yield.
At that moment his huge lung capacity showed its worth; the long yell rang out like a battle horn.
Infected by the sound, the hundred-odd extras behind him yelled louder, a wild chorus that carried far beyond the set.
Helen Herman stood at the edge of the location, watching Matthew still swinging the hammer and roaring, and gave a small nod.
"He looks decent," Amanda said, moving beside her.
"Good enough," Helen replied; she was half a professional herself. "For this role, plenty."
She'd never expected pyrotechnics when she bumped a day-player up to a speaking part.
On set Matthew's yell died; the hammer stamped the ground—the cue they'd rehearsed. The extras cut their shouts, though a few stray yells lingered.
"Good," Ridley said without complaint. "That's a wrap on this beat. Move to the next."
The Crew bustled, relocating track and camera.
Matthew exhaled. Not bad—only two takes.
"Touch-up!"
The Assistant Director's call brought a makeup artist running.
"Water," Matthew said.
A runner thrust a straw-cup into his hands so he wouldn't smudge the beard.
For a moment he felt like the lead actor, a star.
He knew once the last shot wrapped he'd snap right back to nobody.
Ridley finished giving notes and had a moment free. Helen approached; everyone knew her connection to the director, so no one blocked her path.
"How did he do?" she asked Ridley.