WTR-LAB
Best Movie Star
C
After hanging up, Matthew stood outside Red Penguin Company and punched the air—this first step toward stardom and a better life was finally about to begin!
The caller had been Angelina Jolie's assistant; she told him to come to the Universal Studios lot north of Burbank next Monday with an Agent for a casting look-over and to sign a temporary-actor agreement with the production.
The role was the sort of blink-and-you-miss-it passer-by.
Matthew had never expected instant fame—impossible—and this fit his expectations.
He didn't know Hollywood well, only the broad-brush stuff from the age of viral gossip—like Angelina Jolie later marrying Brad Pitt—but the previous occupant of this body had collected reams of material, memories Matthew now owned.
So Matthew's position was clear: he was a day-player, what another country would call an extra.
Whatever the label, you need an Agent to land work.
Jobs are scarce, yet the nominal bar to "actor" is low: get headshots, register height, weight, eye color with an agency, sign a rep contract, and the agency pitches you to productions.
The previous guy had done this—filed with a tiny agency and kept one Agent's number in his phone, though the man had never called.
Matthew scrolled through his contacts while walking to the bus stop; the listed Agent was worth a try.
If not, he'd find another small shop—Los Angeles is Hollywood's hometown, after all.
He'd thought of calling an Agent right after talking to Angelina Jolie, but yesterday had been lost to apartment-hunting and a night shift; there'd been no time.
Per the inherited memories, an Agent wasn't just mandatory for work; a good one could map a career path. Matthew also wanted classes, and he needed professional advice—he was flying blind.
Hollywood has more than just the Big Five; plenty of boutiques survive in the cracks.
Starlight Company on Sunset Boulevard is one of them.
It's small, new, with seven or eight freshly licensed, resource-poor Agents crammed into three offices—one for the boss, a closet for accounting, everyone else in a single oversized room.
"Hey, Director Kuka, it's me—Dennis. We had dinner the day before yesterday."
The caller was a bespectacled fat man; even though the casting director of a tiny shoot couldn't see him, he oozed flattery. "You needed twenty corpses, right? I've got them lined up—pros who'll stay dead while you kick them! When do we sign?"
"Great! Great!"
Apparently the man agreed; Dennis's eyes disappeared into his grin. "I'll be there first thing tomorrow!"
He hung up, wiped the smile off, and dropped into his chair, which groaned like it might collapse under him.
"Damn business," he muttered, rubbing his stiff cheeks. "Nothing but bottom-feeder gigs."
He felt the agency's extra-actor division wasted his talents.
Nearly a year here, and not one film they'd supplied had hit theaters—straight-to-video fare at best. TV was slightly better, but the boss kept that locked up, leaving Dennis nothing.
Ring-ring—
The desk phone shrilled.
"Hello… Starlight Company, Dennis speaking."
"Ah, hello," said an unfamiliar voice. "is this Mr. Dennis Coulter?"
"That's me!" He thought a job might be calling.
"Matthew Horner here." Dennis didn't recognize the name. "I registered with you a while back."
So—not a job, just another dreamer. "What do you want?" His tone curdled.
Impatience crept in.
"I've landed day-player work on a production; I need an Agent to sign for it."
Dennis perked slightly. "How many slots?"
"One!"
Interest evaporated—run across town for a single extra? Pennies on the mile.
"Mr. Coulter?" the voice pressed when no reply came. "You still there?"
The phone rang suddenly. Dennis glanced at it, saw it was a casting director he worked with, and immediately set the receiver aside. Spotting the new kid who'd joined the company last month idling at the desk across from him, he waved the youth over and, in a patronizing tone, said, "I've got a job—handle it."
The young Agent took the receiver and began speaking.
Dennis Coulter answered his cellphone, but before he could speak a furious voice exploded through the earpiece: "Dennis, what the hell are you doing? I asked for cheap non-union actors! I don't want expensive union talent! Why are there union members in the list you sent? If I wanted union people I'd post a notice at the Actors Guild—why would I need you?"
"Sorry!" Dennis Coulter apologized quickly. "Sorry! My assistant must have slipped up..."
He didn't even have an assistant; he was just shifting blame.
"Tomorrow morning!" he promised. "Tomorrow morning the right profiles will be in your hands!"
The man on the other end cursed a bit more, and Dennis Coulter had to sit there and take it. When the call ended he slumped in his chair, rolling his eyes in frustration.
"Hold on, let me make sure!"
The young Agent across from him was saying, "You're telling me you landed a job on the set of girl, interrupted—directed by James Mangold, starring Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie?"
"What?" Dennis Coulter froze. "James Mangold? Winona Ryder? Angelina Jolie? girl, interrupted?"
How could those big names be connected to the day-player whose name he couldn't even remember?
If he wasn't mistaken, that Sony Columbia Pictures production had a forty-million-dollar budget. Not even the company's top brass could get near a project that size, let alone him and his extras.
There had to be a mistake, Dennis Coulter told himself, incredulous.
"Yes!" came the confident reply from the other end. "Miss Jolie got him the job."
Jolie? Angelina Jolie? Dennis Coulter shot to his feet and, moving with surprising speed for such a fat man, rushed over, snatched the receiver, and—ignoring the glare from the rookie—declared, "Sorry, I had to take a call. I'm your Agent, Dennis Coulter."
The rookie, furious at such shamelessness, opened his mouth to protest but wilted under the veteran's threatening stare and air of seniority.
"Hi, I'm Matthew Horner," the person on the line said, apparently unaware of anything unusual. "Can you represent me?"
"Yes! Of course I can!" Dennis Coulter answered at once.
For an Agent, a single gig meant little, but representing this one could put him in touch with Angelina Jolie and the girl, interrupted production—people at a level he'd never reached before.
No one in the entire agency had ever dealt with talent that big.
This was a foot in the door—a stepping-stone to the big leagues.
Only an idiot would be content forever booking day-players in a dead-end boutique agency.
Imagining the high-level connections he might build, Dennis Coulter couldn't wait. "Look, Matthew, let's meet. Come to the office and we'll talk in person."
Hanging up, Dennis Coulter saw the rookie still staring and snorted, "What are you looking at? He's my client."
He was right; the rookie shot him one last resentful look and slumped back into his chair.
About forty minutes later the receptionist led a young man inside. "Dennis, someone for you," she announced as they stepped through the door.
Following her gaze, Matthew saw a bespectacled fat man who had to weigh well over two hundred pounds.
"You're Matthew?"
The big man beamed and stepped forward. Matthew nodded. "Mr. Dennis Coulter?"
"Just Dennis," the fat man said familiarly.
He checked his watch. "Let's talk downstairs in the café."
Matthew had no objection and followed him down. Dennis ordered two coffees and asked, "This job Miss Jolie got you?"
"Yes." Matthew didn't hesitate to cloak himself in borrowed prestige. "And please keep it quiet—Miss Jolie doesn't want outsiders knowing."
Dennis Coulter nodded. "Give me the broad strokes."
Matthew had prepared; he spun what he could, embellishing freely. In short, he'd come to Hollywood chasing a dream, met Jolie by chance, and she'd landed him a day-player role.
"Don't worry, I'll go with you Monday."
After hearing him out, Dennis Coulter said magnanimously, "You just focus on acting—I'll handle everything else!"