CHAPTER 22 – Killing in the Name

Warner Bros. Studio.

Burbank.

Jack Ferroni sat in the editing room, encased by sensory deprivation, joined by his editing crew. They numbered four, all in all, three on two couches, and one in a Herman Miller Aeron, fingers dancing over shortcut keys and a roller ball mouse.

He sat in the middle, directly behind Norbert, Warner’s Editor, a Warlock of the dark room who stitched Ferroni’s work from twenty hours of footage into a 28-minute syndicated episode. Most of the room was occupied by the Avid workstation, together with a plethora of screens, chiefly for Norbert and Ferroni’s benefit.

To his left sat his Assistant Editor, the man responsible for pulling the segments in Ferroni’s head into view. Further to the left, nibbling on sushi, was their Post Production Supervisor, a man who firmly believed that, somehow, chewing loudly in the same room ensured that schedules were met for the mixing and colourist teams.

For the Friday night episode, the majority of the scenes had already been digitally transferred and stacked, meaning Jack Ferroni’s principal work tonight was to repay a favour.

“Norb, pull up the master for Scene 14. I want to see the geography first,” he told his AE, who summoned the 24mm wide-angle dolly of the girl’s entrance into view. His Editor clicked and clicked, then a dozen frames of the girl slid into view.

They played it back once, twice, three times, until Jack got a feel for the exact moment where the seamless transition should occur.

“Splice in Conrad’s close-up, roll B. Good.”

Ferroni considered the effect. A second too long, and the scene felt creepy. Half a second too short, and the shock of seeing the girl lost its gravitas.

“Hold for now. Give me roll B on Fontaine, the 50mm, then 100mm. All three take.”

On screen, Eppie Fontaine turned her head when she couldn’t help but feel the fiery glare of desire from Edna’s husband. Almost unconsciously, she turns. A split-second of hesitation passed through her eyes, something between fear and uncertainty, then she bloomed into an all-encompassing smile, the only defence of a teenage girl against an intrusive adult.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

24mm.
50mm.
100mm.

“Fuck me.” Ferroni kneaded his eyes. “This is batshit insane. How is it possible that all three takes are nearly identical?”

“Didn’t you say this girl’s a nepo-insert?” his Editor laughed. “You wrote the stupid ordering line just for her, right? Besides, shouldn’t the takes be subtly different?”

“Yes, but for an amateur?” Ferroni picked through the soft drinks for a can of V. “She’s 15. Never been on TV. Never acted in a guild production. Never been on stage, as far as I know. She’s apparently a singer. Juliana Vaughan just wanted me to create a one-liner for her specifically so that Miss Fontaine can get her Guild accreditations.”

The other three stared at him.

“Okay. Now that IS insane,” his Editor rolled the footage back and forth. “You’re right, her positioning is consistent as hell.”

“Hold up.” His AE zoomed in, and zoomed in again. “Check this out. Every shot is in focus. In every shot. On a moving Dolly?! What the fuck? How is this type of positioning possible?”

“She’s got great eyes.” Their Post Manager pointed at the giant eye on screen. “The colourist is going to love those. You don’t see that very often.”

Ferroni and the others considered their colleague’s remark. Their subject had a small, petite face and thus possessed the illusion of overly large eyes. More importantly, however, she had particularly heavy central blue heterochromia. On screen, the warm-colour gel made her irises sky blue, while a ring of dark navy made her eyes look even more striking.

“How so?” Ferroni had seen more blue eyes than he could count. In this business, blonde hair and blue eyes were Hollywood stock photography.

“They’re baby eyes,” the Post Manager explained. “That kind of texture and colour’s what we call baby blue—keyword baby. Most kids lose them by the age of three. Her eyes never developed the darkening melanin that comes with elevated light sensitivity, increased disease risk, and so on, but hey, they look brilliant on film. Judy O’Hara had those, as did Vanessa Wood.”

The three of them made O sounds with their mouths. “I hope she can afford an optometrist.”

“Isn’t she a nepo?” the AE snorted. “The favour came from Vogue, right? Why can’t she afford eyecare?”

“That’s what makes this crazy.” Ferroni shook his head. “She’s not nepo. I spoke with her sponsor from Sony. She’s apparently an orphan. No connections. No money. She wrote some songs out of the blue for Sony BMG, made it big in front of the Execs at the Met, and now she’s here, making perfectly focused shots, without a single NG. Three passes, every second of the footage is potentially usable.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

His Editor, AE and PPM all watched the footage of her entering, ordering, and smiling.

“Wait!” the PPM slapped his thighs. “The Guild offers excellent health insurance! Is that the favour? Is this why Vaughan called you?”